Chapter 18 Thou Shalt Not Forget Who’s Watching
Thou Shalt Not Forget Who’s Watching
Arwen
The night air ruffles my useless skirt as I walk away from Maddox. It leaves a chill on my legs that matches the chill inside following that conversation.
We were so thankful when Cleo told us her parents were okay. She was able to contact them last week when the grid went back up. Despite that, I’ve kept Maddox at arm’s length. Now Maddox’s words won’t stop circling my mind.
He’s supposed to fight his brothers and sisters. Maybe kill them. And everyone just… expects that of him.
Not because he wants power. Not because he’s hungry for it. But because if he doesn’t, someone far worse will rise, and the faction will rot even further under their cruelty.
He didn’t say those words, but I heard them anyway. Heavy. Quiet.
Maddox isn’t ruthless by choice. He’s ruthless by necessity.
It almost makes me more afraid of him. The fearless Wrath that I am would never admit that out loud….
I stop in the courtyard; the moonlight throwing pale patterns across the cracked stone, and press my hand to the cool wall. I don’t know why I feel so heavy suddenly. My chest aches as if someone has filled it with stones.
Maybe… maybe that’s the truth of all of this.
We’re not just individuals acting on a whim. We’re shaped, bent, carved into who we’re supposed to be by these factions, these ideals. Maddox has to fight cruelty with cruelty or risk watching his world burn.
It makes me think.
People like Maddox aren’t inherently bad.
Or at least they don’t start out that way.
Saying all of Gluttony’s leadership are power hungry evil warlords is like saying all Wrath soldiers are brawny, brainless hotheads.
We didn’t want to be this way, but we were molded into it. It’s who we have to be.
It’s the factions themselves—their hunger, their rules, their expectations—that twist good into something unrecognizable. They trap you in their design until you can’t tell the difference between survival and corruption.
And if that’s true…
My thoughts slide, uninvited, to Atticus.
I’ve hated him for how easily he shuts down, how he hides behind that Pride facade and expects everyone else to just… figure him out. Meanwhile, I’m over here juggling my own feelings like a circus act.
But he was groomed for that. Keep the mask on. Keep the walls up. Don’t show weakness. Don’t let anyone see there’s an actual human under all that polished steel.
Wouldn’t showing affection in front of the others—openly, vulnerably—make him look weak? Wouldn’t it put him in the kind of danger Maddox spoke of?
Maybe he wasn’t rejecting me. Maybe I put him in an impossible position.
It burns in a way I wasn’t ready for.
I always assumed he felt nothing—didn’t want to. But what if he never had the chance? What if he was only ever allowed to be was that quiet, closed-off version of himself?
The factions don’t just demand loyalty. They demand pieces of you. And if you refuse to give them, they’ll take them anyway.
My back hits the wall. Eyes sting, pulse in my throat. Part of me wants to yell. Part of me just… gets it.
For the first time, the picture isn’t blurry.
We are all prisoners of the roles we were born into. And maybe the actual fight isn’t against each other at all.
Maybe it’s against the cages themselves.
***
A couple of days later, Holly, Tabby and I are flipping through more history books in the library. The faint smell of dust and ink, warm lamplight pooling across the worn wooden tables. I still can’t seem to get my conversation with Maddox out of my head.
Realizing this might be the right moment to share what had been gnawing at me, I clear my throat. “I’ve… been thinking.”
Three pairs of eyes swivel towards me.
“About speaking to Atticus…. Again.”
Holly cocks her eyebrow like I’m crazy.
I force myself to hold their gazes. “I might try giving him another shot. Our research is getting us nowhere.”
The silence that followed was louder than anything the library’s hush could impose.
“Wait—what?” Tabby, the first to find her voice, says scandalized. “You swore him off, Arwen! Like, passionately. And repeatedly. With very colorful language, I might add.”
“I know.” Sighing, I press my palms flat against the table, grounding myself.
“I’ve been thinking about our interaction.
So much of who he is comes from what’s expected of him.
Atticus grew up inside Pride. Of course, he puts reputation first. Of course, he acts untouchable in front of everyone.
Maybe I was… asking him to be someone he can’t be in public without ruining himself.
Maybe I put him in an impossible situation the first time. ”
“That doesn’t mean you have to throw yourself back into the fire,” Holly says, even though her frown reveals she is torn.
“It’s not just about him. We’ve been researching for weeks, and we’ve found nothing—no secret ritual, no other way to trigger a sin power. My best shot is still him. If I try again, if I can get him alone, maybe…” I hesitate, choosing my words. “Maybe it works. Maybe something awakens.”
“You’re planning on flirting with him?” Tabby’s voice pitched higher, incredulous. “On purpose?”
I bite back a laugh, but I feel the heat creeping up my neck. “Yes. On purpose. But not in front of his posse this time. I’ll convince him to meet me alone. No audience, no posturing. Just… him and me.”
Cleo speaks; her voice is measured. “That’s risky. But if anyone could get him to lower his guard, it’s you.”
I catch the glimmer of approval in Cleo’s eyes, and for a moment, my heart steadies.
“I’m not saying it’ll work,” I admit. “But sitting here, chasing dusty records and dead ends, isn’t working either. And I’m running out of time.”
Holly sighed, folding her arms. “I still don’t like that you have to cozy up to that pompous douche after the way he treated you. But… I’ll back you. Just—be careful, Arwen. He’s still the Councilor’s son, and he could do a lot worse than throw cruel words your way. "
Tabby groans, slumping over her books dramatically. “If this goes horribly wrong, I reserve the right to say, ‘I told you so.’… Loud and often.”
I grin. “Fair enough. And now you’ll have your time back to bed hop.”
Tabby perks up at that thought.
The four of us sit in the thick quiet of the library again, but this time the silence hummed with anticipation.
***
It’s been two days since our conversation in the library, and I have found it is absolutely impossible to find King Atticus alone. Everywhere I see him, his army of prideful dicks is close by. It’s infuriating.
I watch as he enters the cafeteria with his friends and breaks off towards the espresso machines while the rest of his posse heads towards their table.
“This may be my only chance,” I whisper to Holly.
She looks to where Atticus is standing and then back at me. “I don’t know, Arwen. It’s still so public.”
“I’m just… going to grab a coffee and see if we can talk somewhere private. It’ll be fine,” I mutter, hauling myself out of the seat. Here goes nothing.
My pulse is doing gymnastics in my chest—flipping, tripping, trying to escape. For two days I’ve been psyching myself up for this: just ask Atticus if we can talk, like real people, somewhere far away from his ever-present entourage of perfectly polished annoyances.
Walking over to the coffee station, I feel like there are more eyes on me than usual. Atticus is waiting for his cup to be filled at the machine, and I notice he is on his phone. Crap. Now I have to find an excuse to dawdle.
I grab a to go cup and act like I’m reading the big coffee machines, pondering what to get. I can’t help hearing snippets of his conversation as he speaks in a hushed, frustrated tone into the phone.
“Yes, Father. I understand.” A pause. His jaw works, the muscles ticking. “I didn’t mean to disappoint you.”
My stomach knots, my limbs refusing to obey.
I shouldn’t care this much. I shouldn’t be here, hovering like a stalker.
But his voice… faltering just slightly… pins me to the floor.
I can feel my bond tugging at my ribs, screaming to get out and fix him, and all I can do is stand here like a useless idiot.
“No—I wasn’t making excuses. I was following protocol. Just as you’ve always taught me.”
Another pause. He pulls in a breath through his nose, almost shaky.
“Of course I want to reflect well on the family. On you. I only thought it was better to wait before making a move.”
The words drip with frustration, but there’s something else too—something that sounds dangerously close to pleading.
The silence on the other end stretches. Atticus’s fingers curl around the edge of the counter until his knuckles whiten.
“Yes, Father. I’ll do better.” His tone softens, forced, like he’s swallowing broken glass and calling it honey.
“I won’t disappoint you again.”
Something inside me twists as he hangs up. I’ve seen Atticus unshakable, unreadable, his pride wrapped around him like armor. But right now? He sounded… small. Human. Like a boy trying too hard to live up to something impossible.
I don’t think. My hand just… moves, like it has its own plan.
I’m trying to give him something, anything, a little lifeline. My fingertips brush the sharp edge of his knuckles, a quiet, trembling offer. A spark of comfort I didn’t know I had the courage to give.
He jolts like I’ve burned him. His head whips around, eyes blazing.
“Were you just listening to me?” His voice cuts sharp, furious and loud. Louder than I want, because instantly heads lift from their conversations and whispers ripple through the room.
I stumble back a half-step. “No! I—well, yes, but not like that. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. I just came to ask—”
“To what?” His voice snaps, sharp enough to make the air vibrate. He steps closer, and suddenly the space between us is tight, almost crackling. Heat radiates off him, wrapping around me like a warning I can’t ignore.